Tick talk, p.1
Tick Talk, page 1
Tick Talk
By Renée Wehrle
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the names, characters, places, incidents, any persons living or dead, companies, events, businesses, or locales is purely coincidental, used fictitiously, or a product of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2021 RENÉE WEHRLE
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798527247732
Dedication
To all those who have endured the physical and mental anguish that gnaws and jitters at your very existence. It takes a certain mental fortitude to persevere and prevail through these types of infections. Don’t give up hope.
CHAPTER ONE
“How does that make you feel, Mia?” Dr. White asks. It’s only the second question in a long line of questioning that I know is to follow in my final quest to yank myself out of my constant state of gnawing and jittering. I pause . . .
“Insignificant, unimportant . . . lonely.”
“But you did have a friend through all this. Isn’t that something?” Dr. White notes, looking over her reading glasses at me. They make her brown eyes look large and childlike, comforting.
I nod. “However, hindsight is twenty/twenty. Right? But while you’re living something, it’s like living in a haze with no concept of where you are or clarity of what is happening. You know? That was me my sophomore year of high school. I merely survived through every day, pushing myself, no, willing myself to do more than just exist. I felt like I was constantly walking uphill in the fog after crawling out of a car crash. And no one would listen. I felt like I was drowning in an empty abyss completely alone.” I look up at the ceiling to hold in the tears, and then out the window. The oak leaves wave at me from the tree just outside.
“That sounds daunting,” Dr. White coaxes me with her soothing voice.
“Looking back, I remember the defining afternoon it all started. The memory is so vivid to me. I was leaning over the kitchen sink, hurriedly eating crackers and cheese to have a little something in my stomach before I raced off to softball practice. It struck me like a bolt of lightning, a thunderous pain in my head, bringing me to my knees. It felt like a vise was crushing my brain. I remember grabbing the sides of my head and pulling on my hair, trying to release the pressure.” The feeling is so visceral, I’m instantly transported to that moment.
“Mia, what is going on?” my mother says, eyeing me as she whizzes by, gathering up water bottles and snack bags. “We don’t have time for theatrics if I’m going to get you and your sister to your practices on time. Now, let’s move it out! Molly! Get down here! It’s time to go!” my mother yells to the air, heading to the door, arms full, keys jingling.
I manage to stagger over to the couch and fall into the cushions. The pain isn’t subsiding; matter of fact, it is increasing and it’s too painful to open my eyes to the light. “Mom, my head hurts really bad. I don’t think I can go,” I manage to croak out through the stabs of pain.
“Mia, really?! You can’t muscle through it? We don’t have time for this.” My mother opens the door to the garage and motions for Molly, who has most of her uniform on. “Molly, you know you get in trouble if you don’t have the right socks on.” She lets out an exasperated sigh.
“They’re still dirty in the wash!” Molly shrugs as she puts on her softball hat and heads out the door.
“Mia?” My mother stands expectantly in the doorway, hands on her hips.
“Really, I can’t go. I can’t even look. It’s unlike any headache I’ve ever had.” I put my hands over my face and squeeze, hoping to relieve the unwavering pain.
“Suit yourself. We’ll talk about this when I get home.” The door slams shut behind her and sends more thunderous pain through my head.
I try to stand but feel too dizzy, so I literally crawl to my bedroom. Thankfully, it’s on the first floor. I manage to close the window blinds and crawl into my bed, clothes and all. It’s warm out, a beautiful spring day, but chills run up and down my body. I ball up and wrap my hands around my head, willing myself to fall asleep. Clammy and shaking, I feel the sweet relief finally come.
☼☼☼
“Mia? Are you all right?” I wake to my mother gently smoothing my hair back. I look at the clock to see the time. “You’re covered in sweat! Let’s check your temperature.” She goes into my attached bathroom and returns with an ear thermometer. I manage to sit up. Thankfully, my headache is gone, but I ache all over.
“You have a fever of a hundred and one. Let me look at you.” She turns the bedside lamp on and looks me over. “Your face is beet red.” She sits down next to me.
“I had the worst headache I have ever had. I thought I was dying.” She gives me a look. “Really, it was like a thunderbolt of lightning hit my brain.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt.
“You probably have a touch of something. How about I bring you dinner in bed. You get to bed early, and you’ll be all better in the morning.” She smooths my hair back and leaves my room. I slide out of bed and change out of my sweaty clothes and put on my fuzzy pajamas. My phone pings from my bedside table as I stumble, missing the leg hole in my pjs. I notice my foot—huh, it’s purple. That’s odd. My phone pings again. It’s probably Madison wondering where I’ve been. I jam my foot into my pajama bottoms and hit the message button.
Madison: Pickles! Where were you? Missed you at practice.
Sidebar here. Madison is my best friend since preschool. We have done everything together, from playing softball to getting our ears pierced, and of course, we have nicknames for each other. She calls me Pickles and I call her Chips, because that’s the special snack we’d have together when we were six. Weird, I know, but try it sometime, pickles and chips. It’s quite tasty, salty, and sour together, kind of like me and Madison. She’s a little salty, and I’m—well, I hate to admit it—a little sour sometimes.
Me: I had a crushing headache, so I decided to crash at home. How was Coach T today? Any meltdowns?
Madison: Sam was catching and Nina took your place at first, so what do you think?! There was a lot of face slapping and yelling on Coach’s part. I thought he was going to pull his face clean off.
I can so picture Coach T doing this. He is rather theatrical, as my mother likes to say, during practice and especially, like, embarrassingly so, at games. He’s been known to swat the air frantically with his open hand, as if that will magically push the ball into the right direction. I chuckle at the thought of this and shake my head to no one but myself.
Me: LOL
Madison: You going to make it in to school tomorrow?
My mother pushes my bedroom door open with her hip and balances a tray of steaming soup, a side of my favorite crackers, and a glass of orange juice. Vitamins roll around between the bowl and spoon as she motions me with her head to get into bed. I oblige, sending one last quick text.
Me: Gotta go. Soup’s here. See ya tomorrow. I hit the send button and place my phone within reach on my side table. I slide my legs under the covers and pull the blankets up to my waist as I prop myself up against the pillows and headboard of the bed.
My mother places the tray on my lap. Teetering, the soup sloshes but doesn’t spill over. “There, that should make you feel better, chicken noodle soup and vitamin C. What’s with all these blankets?” She ruffles them and smooths them out so they are neat and organized. Everything, and I mean everything, is always in its place when my mother’s around. I guess being a daughter of an army officer and an army nurse herself, she is bound to be rather disciplined.
“I’m freezing.” I take a slurp of the hot soup. Its warmth is comforting. “At least my headache is finally gone.” I sip the orange juice. Its citrusy contrast to the savory soup makes my salivary glands spurt in my mouth.
“You probably didn’t drink enough water today. Eight glasses a day, young lady.” Mom fluffs my pillow and kisses my forehead. “Feel better and get some rest.”
I nod. She backs out the door, smiling. “Thanks, Mom.” The door clicks shut.
I finish my soup and hunker down into the covers, still shivering. I drift off to sleep. Before I know it, the door to my room crashes open. I hear click, click, click and panting. A soft tongue, a bit slimy, bathes my dangling arm. I squint open one eye and Maggie, our Saint Bernard, is two inches from my face, staring at me with her big brown eyes. Sunshine outlines the shades on my windows. Ugh, morning already?
“Hey, Maggie-doodle.” I pat her shaggy head, and she licks my face in return, turning to head back to the morning mayhem that awaits in the kitchen. The smell of turkey bacon gets me to drag my butt out of bed. Every joint in my body aches. I feel like a tin man walking without oil.
“Mia! It’s late!” Molly shouts as she passes my doorway on her way to the kitchen. I’m lucky, or not so lucky, not sure which, but my room is the only bedroom on the first floor at the bottom of the stairs, so I hear everyone as they come down in the morning.
Stiffly, I shuffle to the kitchen, where I find my family in their usual mode of rush. Molly is arguing with my father about the lineup for softball this evening. He took over coaching after the previous coach decided it was too much to take on thirteen-year-old girls. My dad, however, having had plenty of practice dealing with such things three years ago with me, had a plan in place: You can share some of your feelings before practice, but feelings have to be safely boxed up for the game. He made it a custom to pass an actual metal box with a latch around to each player, wh
I plop myself down at the kitchen table, rubbing my face.
“Mia, how come you’re not dressed?” The rule in our house is we’re supposed to be dressed and ready for school before sitting at the breakfast table on school days. Mom and my dad might work in the medical field now, but their days in the army definitely carried over into their civilian lives.
Mom slides a plateful of scrambled eggs, buttered whole wheat toast, and turkey bacon in front of me. “Big game tonight. Do you think Madison will bring her change-up or her fast pitch? That girl is going places.” She scrubs the breakfast fry pan and wipes up the counters. Everything must be put away before we leave for the day.
“That’s for sure. If she can throw sixty-two miles per hour at age sixteen, it’s a sure-fire way to get noticed by recruiters,” Dad pipes in, chomping down the last of his turkey bacon. He wipes his clean-shaven face off with his napkin. He is not unlike my mother with his daily regimen and strict exercise routine, but he’s definitely less uptight about it. He has told me that if the army taught him anything as a medic, it was how to remain calm and strong in any situation. I admire that about him.
“Off for my run.” He stands up from the table, excusing himself, and kisses all three of us on the cheeks and pats Maggie on the head as he sprints out the door.
Everyone is their usual peppy self, except me. What’s wrong with me? I have so much to do today. I have that geometry test and then a timed writing test in English. And most importantly, our first big softball game against Londonderry High, Westfield’s biggest rival. And those are the things I have to do, never mind about what I’d rather be doing. Volunteering at the animal shelter for sure. But no, I feel like I’ve been run over by a tractor-trailer. I push the food around on my plate, dreading the day ahead.
“Eat up, girls. Let’s get going if you’re going to make the bus.” Mom starts clearing the table and wiping around our plates. Dad rarely puts his dishes away before dashing away. He tends to be rather laissez-faire when it comes to household chores. Mom picks up the slack without saying a word.
“Ah . . . you can’t drive us to school?” Molly whines.
“How old are you?” I glare at her, gathering my place setting and standing.
“What?” Molly drawls out the word and pushes her chair back, bringing her plate to the kitchen sink.
“Whining doesn’t suit you, Molly. Put your dishes in the dishwasher, please. Mia can drive you on Friday. I’m off, and she can have the car.”
Mom collects her things: stethoscope, coffee mug, and work badge. She makes much of the same pile of things for my dad to bring to his work. Mom works as the charge nurse at a clinic, and my dad works as a paramedic at Westfield University Medical. They hope for me to follow in their medical-oriented footsteps someday, but as a doctor.
“Do I have to drive her on Friday? I was going to pick up my friends.” I stand facing my mother, shoulders drooping in self-pity.
My mother eyes me. “The middle school is literally across the street from the high school.” She gestures to the air. “I think you can make it work. And stand up straight, Mia! Let’s get going, ladies, now!” She claps her hands together loudly. Molly and I both move it out. Even Maggie marches her way to the doggie door, tail swishing back and forth.
Staring into my closet and sliding the hanger with the short-sleeve, knee-length dress I bought last week out of the way, I grab a pair of athletic leggings and a long T-shirt with our team logo on it. I’m really supposed to dress up today, since it’s our first game, but my joints are so stiff and sore that I can’t bring myself to wear stockings and a dress. Too tight. I do a couple of leg stretches and jumping jacks to loosen up. It helps, a bit. I run a bristle brush through my dark brown hair to tame the waves, before tying it up into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. A little purple mascara to accentuate my amber eyes and I’m off.
Heading out the open garage door, I walk stiffly by my dad in the driveway. His athletic frame is bent over stretching; he’s still huffing and puffing from his run. He looks up.
“Hey, have a great day. I’ll see you on the field tonight. Go, Badgers, go!” He watches me as I pass.
I nod and give him a not-so-enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Looks like you could use some shaping up yourself. A little stiff these days, I see. You should join me for a run Saturday morning—like old times. We’ll leave nice and early.”
That’s probably exactly what I need. My body is just sluggish from the winter, even though we’ve had outdoor practice for weeks and I played indoor softball over the winter.
“Sure, sounds good.” I wave, giving him a winning smile.
CHAPTER TWO
I find Madison, Jamie, and Jess sitting on the brick wall to the side entrance of school, our usual meeting spot in the morning, the sweet smell of spring hanging in the fresh air. Madison and Jess are tossing a softball back and forth over Jamie’s head.
“Hey, girl. Why aren’t you dressed up? Coach T is going to go all face-slapping crazy on you.” I hear Madison cluck her tongue at me. She’s wearing a sporty short-sleeve dress and matching no-tie canvas sneakers.
Jamie is wearing white, zip-up athletic wear, a hooded shirt, and a mid-thigh purple skirt, and Jess, a floral printed dress that falls at the ankle. I know my attire isn’t showing the team spirit a first base player of the team should have, but I’m hopeful a trip to The Sip Shop after school will perk me up. All I need is to give a caffeine-induced inspirational speech before the game to pump up the team, and my un-spirited attire will be forgiven.
“I know, I know. I’ll make up for it with attitude. It’s nothing a little espresso won’t fix after school. You ladies in?” I grab the softball mid-toss over Jamie’s head.
“Can’t, I’m in charge of the team snacks, so I’ll need time to go to the store.” Jamie gets up and smooths her skirt, checking to make sure it’s covering all unmentionables. It’s obvious she is not used to wearing a skirt. None of us athletic girls are. Another reason I didn’t want to wear one. I hate them. You always have to make sure you are all ladylike. Who needs to worry about that nonsense?
“Me neither. My mom is making me go to my brother’s game before I go to mine. How ridiculous is that? He could give a shit if I’m there.” Jess grabs the ball from me and stuffs it into her backpack. She and Jamie start walking. “See ya later.”
Madison hops down from the wall and walks with me. First bell rings its warning. “So, did you decide if you’re going to be a bagger at Greenie’s Grocery with me?”
“Oh yeah, as soon as my mother heard about that, she went to speak with Mr. Greenie on my behalf. I start Saturday.” I smile half-heartedly. Lucky me.
“Great! It’ll be fun, Pickles and Chips!” Madison slings her arm around my neck, and I flinch. A sharp pain shoots down both my arms and up and over my head. She releases her side hug, looking at me. “What was that?”
“Ah, sorry. Weird shooting pain. It’s all good. No worries,” I say, and Madison smiles and waves me off to class.
“Meet you at my car after school.” She laughs and skips away, her dress and blonde ponytail dancing with her swaying motion, backpack bouncing against her shoulder.
Crazy girl. Normally, I would be peppy and bouncy on a day like today too, but I can’t seem to muster it up. What the heck. I lumber toward my classroom.
As the last bell for first period rings, I take a seat in geometry. Ms. Bonner hands out the exam papers and tells us to begin. I stare at my paper, and the numbers begin to blur on the page. I blink a few times and wipe my eyes. You got this, Mia. You got this. Pencil positioned to start computing, I wait for inspiration. My mind is thick with shapes and formulas. I look up and catch Ms. Bonner’s eye. She gets up from her desk and walks nonchalantly up and down the rows until she gets to my desk. She leans in.
